A/N: Sorry! I'm sorry for the lateness of the update! Time just got away from me and I didn't realise how long it had been. Thanks again to the wonderful BuzzyBeeForever - you're so gorgeously lovely, my dear; thank you for your comments. I hope you enjoy the heart-wrenching sadness :)

Chapter 17: I'm A Terrible Person

Darkness

Silence.

It should have been peaceful. It was peaceful, sort of. There was no floating feeling, no weightlessness. But stasis ensued.

I was lying in the darkness. Darkness like the heaviness of full night when even the distant sounds of the surrounding hubbub had died, when the feeble light of moon and stars were blotted into non-existence by heavy curtains.

It should have been peaceful. It was. Sort of.

Except for the pressure. There was a weight. At once in my head, pressing demandingly at a sensitive bulb behind my eyes. Then it faded, only to arise in my chest, in my gut, lodging in my throat.

That was not peaceful. I didn't like that at all. I did. Not. Like. It.

It should have been scary. I knew it was scary. For a moment, when the pressure slid on its way from the back of my tongue down to my throat once more, I couldn't breathe. That was scary. It should have been scary.

But… I didn't feel scared. I just felt… hollow.

That should have been scary too. Why didn't I feel scared?

I didn't know. I couldn't remember. I couldn't remember much of anything. I didn't know where I was, couldn't feel anything except that strange, drifting pressure. I couldn't remember what day it was. I couldn't remember what I'd done yesterday. In a sluggish struggle, I fought to make out anything, a faint memory, a feeling of nostalgia. Images of faces flickered forth but disappeared too quickly for me to identify them.

I couldn't remember.

That should have been scary.

I wondered why I wasn't scared?

I felt warm. Not the warmth of natural body heat. It was the familiar, distinctive warmth of a Warming Charm, radiating from blankets that felt smooth but not quite soft.

I took a breath – the first breath I could remember actively taking in… in forever. The smell of sharp, artificial cleanliness, not clean like an open-air garden after a shower, or the smell of fresh linens. It was Charm-clean, just like the blankets were Charm-warmed.

It was a struggle to open my eyes. They felt gummy, as though my lashes had been glued together, and the struggle wasn't eased by the sudden influx of light as I finally pried them apart. Bright light assaulted me and I immediately clamped my eyelids shut once more.

When I finally managed to blink them open them again, the light was still almost blindingly bright but not abusively so. I peered around me and what I saw made my stomach sink.

The room I was in, positioned at the very centre, definitely belonged to a hospital. I recognised it from the many times Dad has found himself closeted in similar rooms from some 'minor' happenstance at work. Pale green walls were broken by a single wide painting of rippling and boringly plain scenery. Swirling grey-patterned linoleum ringed the narrow bed on which I lay, propped up at an angle to afford a view of the room. From my recline I could see the half-closed door into the room, another beside it that I supposed must have led to a bathroom, and a window on the wall directly opposite bordered by grey curtains gathered at either side.

But what really stood out, what made the reality more profound than the artificial smell of cleanliness, was the monitor ticking away at my side. Compared to the Muggle vital monitors, with their colourful squiggles and repetitive beeps that I'd seen in one too many medical shows, these ones were far more discomforting. I'd never felt as such before, and the immediacy of my dislike was attributed to the very fact that I was hooked up to it.

It was a cylinder, a transparent tube containing liquid that looks like nothing if not water with a flutter of bubbles erupting occasionally into the inch of air left at the top of the contraption. The bubbles that arose very obviously from a number of different coloured and sized orbs of luminescent light drifting and bouncing off the walls of the tube. Magic stabilisers, I remembered Mum calling them the first time Dad had been hooked up to one. She'd sounded relieved to describe how they ensured he was both physically and magically stable by taking constant readings from the little wrist cuff, sending ripples of magic down the tube in little pulses of light to remedy any abnormalities. I used to share Mum's relief, even finding the lights beautiful in a way more superficial than the comfort afforded by the medical support they provided.

Not now. Now I wanted nothing more than to take it off. And the reason for that flared once more as a little pulse of bluish light filtered down the attaching tube, flaring light into the little transparent wrist cuff for a moment before fizzling into my skin beneath. It left an almost nauseating lurk that sparked up my arm, zapping through me instantaneously but gone in the next instant. I didn't like it, even knowing that it was likely attached for a very good reason.

I didn't like it at all.

Lifting heavy fingers to pick at the cuff – it didn't come off but then of course it didn't – I frowned thoughtfully. Hospital. I was in hospital, likely St. Mungo's, which meant that someone had obviously taken me there because I was… sick? I wasn't sure. The last few days seemed like hazy memories to me, memories as dense and clinging as the weeds and rushes in the shallows of the Black Lake. I remembered… I remembered going to Hogsmeade with Scor. I remembered flying with him in the afternoon. I remembered procrastinating from studying Astronomy with Ozzy after… wait, no, maybe that was before. Was it before? And was Hogsmeade on Saturday or Sunday, or was that maybe the week before too?

I frowned, shaking my head. It seemed to rattle slightly, jumbling my memories further and adding a burst of disjointed feelings to the mix. Satisfaction, happiness, and relief mixed with frustration, anger and… that all-too familiar feeling that I attributed to anxiety. The gut clenching, the hot-cold assault of my entire body, the dizziness and ache in my chest when my racing heart reached a point of exhaustion yet still ploughed on with its intense hammering. I hated that feeling. But what was worse was not knowing where it had come from.

Something… to do with my waking up in hospital. I wasn't an idiot. At least, I didn't think I was. Something that got me so anxious was probably pretty terrifying too. Had I fallen off the broom when I went flying with Scor? There was a reason I disliked the idea of flying, and more than just because I was sort of a lazy person who objected to the very notion of exercise. Flying was unsafe, dammit!

But no, I didn't remember falling. I didn't remember landing the broom either, granted, but surely I would have remembered falling. And beside, that brief and passing memory of anxiety was broad, stretching, not acute enough to be attributed to something as immediate and confronting as a minor yet potentially fatal fall.

Frowning, picking at the resisting cuff, I pondered the dilemma. For a good half an hour, too, if the clock situation directly across from me, above a little round table and matching round and likely uncomfortable chairs was any indication. The hands read ten forty-five when I glanced at it for the second time. I likely would have gone on pondering, scratching my head with growing frustrating and not a little bit of novel anxiety thrown into the mix – because what the hell had happened? – if the door had not swung open at ten to eleven.

James filled the doorway. He looked… he looked like shit, to be honest. His dark hair, always artlessly mussed, had made a fair attempt at mimicking road kill, an impression only enhanced by the dark circles under his eyes and several days of stubble painting his cheeks. The entire ensemble of his outfit appeared to be extending the theme of wrinkles and stains of repeated wear, something I found confusing in itself because James always kept himself well-groomed. It was a product of being in the limelight so often with his quidditch career – and very obvious link to the Potter family – and was something he took pride in as Dad never did. Now he just looked a mess. And worn. Very worn.

I would have usually made some derogatory comment, a gentle jibe to tease him for him dishevelled state. Except that the knowledge of my surroundings, coupled with how much I knew he cared for me, suggested that my current status was the cause for it. That felt terrible.

He wasn't wearing his glasses today, so when he paused in the doorway and turned his eyes upon me, I was treated to the full, cliché response of eyes widening, rapid blinking and jaw popping open. "Al…"

I blinked back at him slowly, urging a wobbly smile onto my face that I'm sure fell far short. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. "Hey, Jimmy. What… what's up?"

My voice sounded terrible. It was feeble, barely more than a croak, and I was immediately made aware of the dryness of my throat. 'Parched' didn't even begin to cover it. Swallowing did bugger all, too.

The door handle clinked slightly in James' hand, but that was the only motion he made save to continue with his stuttering blinks. I was almost ready to pat myself down and make sure I wasn't transparent; he truly did look like he'd seen a ghost. After a moment, a sad sort of smile drew just slightly across his face. "You haven't called me Jimmy in years."

I attempted a smile in reply, but was fairly certain I failed just as spectacularly as he had. "Not since I was eleven," I croaked. "You told me I wasn't allowed to when I got to school 'cause you didn't want everyone knowing the nickname we gave you at home."

James nodded, his smile still sad, as sad as the slight tilt of his head. "Yeah. Why the hell did I ever do that?"

I shrugged, as much because I didn't comprehend it myself – and hadn't given much thought to it, honestly, simply begrudgingly accepting my older brother's wishes – as because I couldn't push myself to speak anymore. James didn't appear to need a reply. Finally, loosening his death grip on the door handle, he edged into the room. He took slow, deliberate steps, almost wary, as though he approached some sort of flighty animal.

Which made his next motion startling. As soon as he was at my bedside, that wariness disappeared. In a collapse so fast that I didn't see it coming at all, I abruptly found myself wrapped in the firm, engulfing embrace of my older brother. He was a big bloke, bigger than me and not just because he was older. All that quidditch or whatever. I'd heard some people refer to him as sturdy, imposing, even, to fellow sportsmen, though even though he was taller than me he wasn't really that tall.

He hardly seemed like the intimidating figure the papers painted him as in that moment, though. It was with a start, at the sound of his shaking breath and the following sob heaved into my shoulder, that I realised he was… crying? James, my laid-back, cool as punch and utterly blasé older brother, was crying?

"James…" I struggled to utter. It was as much a trial because of my increasingly sore throat as the clasp James wrapped around me.

My attempt only made my brother squeeze me tighter. When he spoke his words were muffled and wet, thick with tears. "Christ, Al. You nearly gave us a heart attack. You nearly… you…" Another squeeze. "Please, don't ever do that to us again."

I couldn't respond, though not because my voice was pained this time. I had no idea what to say. Instead, I let James hold me in his awkward half-slump across the bed, struggling to find his composure. I just let him, because his words rung hollow and loud on repeat in my ears and I found myself clinging back to him just as fiercely.

What the hell had I done?

"You don't remember who gave it to you?"

I shook my head in a lie. I couldn't meet Healer Mendez's eyes, couldn't spare a glance for the tall, lanky man, but kept them firmly locked on my hands folded in my lap.

There was a slight pause. "And you've never purchased an illegal drug from another before?"

I shook my head in dissent once more. Another lie, though not technically. I'd never 'purchased' one before, no. Receiving from a jovially sharing fellow junkie was another story entirely.

Mendez sighed. I could hear the scratch of his quill on the clipboard as he jotted down an observation. Swallowing, I glanced sideways at Mum and Dad standing to one side of the bed. I had to flick my eyes back to my hands. It hurt to look at them.

"And you remember nothing of the incident of nearly a week ago?"

Nearly a week ago. Bloody hell, that had shocked me when I'd first heard it. I'd been out like a light for five days, or there about. Unconscious and on the brink of heart failure. And all because of a split decision, the impulsive notion to induce temporary forgetfulness.

What an idiot I was.

I did remember. Abruptly, an instant after Mendez had told me what had happened, explained to me that my hospitalised state was a result of the combined and volatile effects of MA with my Harproot. It had all rushed back to me in an instant, a cacophony of images that assaulted my mind and left me blanked to the surrounding world for an instant.

Ainsley and Dillon's guilty shuffling as the mumbled dubiously.

The stares of my fellow students as I stumbled into the Great Hall.

The blurred captions printed across the page of the Daily Prophet.

Running, fleeing, heart pounding and horrified.

The scent of Harproot and its calming effects, though it wasn't quite enough…

The little parcel of pills. The sparked idea. The taste of chalky dryness on my tongue.

I swallowed in sympathetic memory of that taste. Yes, I remembered it all. But I couldn't tell Mendez that. I'd always had a problem with authority figures, even those that were less 'authority' and more committed to my personal longevity. Pomfrey I'm sure would have a word or two to say about that. He'd frowned and grumbled on more than one occasion when, after the semi-annual medical check inflicted upon all students was conducted, I remained resolutely silent as to the memory-image of my dramatically fluctuating anxiety, of my similarly fluctuating weight levels. And of the seemingly erratic changes to the magical graph he extracted of my physiological and nervous systems' activity that I knew was a result of taking Harproot, or Happy Gum, or Sparkies…

I don't like telling. I've always worried that somehow any information I provide would be used against me. Which was stupid, really, considering that such worries extended to medical practitioners, but I couldn't help myself. It was habit by now, and one I had a hard time urging myself to break.

So no, I didn't tell Mendez that I remembered. I kept my gaze firmly lowered from the man's dark, kindly eyes and firmly set jaw and stuck to my story. Forgetfulness. Ha. How ironic.

Except that I didn't manage to remain mute on every subject.

With a sigh, Mendez flipped at his sheets in what I could only assume was to check for something. "Your friends and family suggested that you have perhaps made an chronic habit of drug use. Is that correct?"

I swallowed once more. My throat still hurt, regardless of the fact that a potion to remedy such had already been taken alongside gallons of water. It probably had something to do with the convulsive nervous seizing it underwent every time I was asked another question. This one I couldn't answer, eyes staring unseeing at my hands again. I could feel my nails picking at one another, that they'd likely be torn to a mess by the afternoon, but I couldn't help myself.

Mendez obviously gleaned an understanding from my silence nonetheless. His quill scratched again. "Perhaps you could explain to me the source of your home-grown Harproot. Or the Miscanthus hybrid? To my knowledge, such subspecies are difficult to come by in European regions."

The Healer's voice was mellow, filled with genuine curiosity, but I cringed at the words. My source? He was asking where I got it from? Shouldn't that be the job of the local law enforcers or something?

Unbidden, I felt my eyes drift towards Dad. He was an Auror, after all. Drug busting isn't exactly his field of expertise, but it was sort of the same department. It was a bad decision. I felt myself cringe further at the expression on his face, the feeble suppression of concern tightening his face and struggling to impress wrinkles into his forehead. Mum's too, I noticed, my eyes naturally drifting towards where she stood at Dad's side. Her mouth was pinched, her face pale and smudged with the marks of sleepless nights. I didn't need to glance to the other side of the bed to know that James and Lily, standing in silent attention, wore the same weariness.

I'd done that. I'd inflicted that upon them. And fucking hell, if that didn't make me the worst son and brother in the history of the world I don't know what did. They loved me and I'd done this to them, had made them worry so badly. And not only that, but there was no accusation from any of them. Absolutely none at all. I don't know if that made things better or worse.

But then Mendez was speaking again, so I didn't get a chance to decide.

"From our assessment, and the statements of your peers, we have deduced that you used Harproot in particular as a depressant of sorts? As an unprescribed medicinal herb to curb instances of anxiety? Is that correct, Albus?"

I was still staring at Mum and so I saw the upwelling of tears in her eyes before she managed to get a hold of herself and quell them. That simple, split-second rush of emotion stemmed my own rising feelings of anger, of unjustified betrayal, towards my friends and family for spilling the beans. Someone had obviously told the Healers about the ins and outs of my using habits, the reality of which basically made Mendez's questions redundant.

That was probably a good thing. I shouldn't be angry with them in the first place. They, like the Healers, were just trying to… help me.

Perhaps it was that realisation that finally got me to talking. "Y-yes."

An almost inaudible sigh of, "Thank you, Albus," from Mendez bespoke relief that I'd broken my silence. That damnable cringe took hold of me again. "How long has this been going on for?"

Mum's eyes. It was her eyes that did me in. That upwelling once more, rapidly quelled with a skill that suggested she'd practiced it many times before. It was the thinning of Dad's lips but the open and forgiving tilt to his head as he met my gaze, telling me I didn't have to speak, that he wouldn't hold it against me. It was the shuffling shift of James' feet on the other side of the bed, the nervous picking of Lily's fingers at the blankets atop my knees as though she was going to pat but aborted the inclination an instant later.

All of it. I guess it could have been seen as a guilt trip but… I couldn't not say something.

"I…" My voice choked; I had to clear my throat to speak above a whisper. "I've been using for years." I had to turn away from Mum, turn back to my hands as she closed her eyes with a pained squeeze. "It's been… about six years."

I could see in my periphery the professional nod Mendez gave my words as he jotted down another note. It was actually easier to look at him now, easier than glancing towards my family. Weird, how quickly that had changed.

Mendez caught my eye and held it, blinking slowly. For a moment, it seemed as though we were the only two in the room. "Now, Albus, I know this is going to be an uncomfortable situation for you, but I'll need to talk to you about your anxiety disorder. Do you think you can do that?"

He spoke to me like I was an infant. Or simple, I wasn't quite sure which. They were one and the same, really. I knew my perception was skewed, that I was resentful because of the intrusiveness as much as anything else, but couldn't help myself. More than that, I hated the term: anxiety disorder. Disorder? Really? I wasn't disordered, I… it wasn't like I was sick or anything. The very thought sent a full body twitch rippling through me. I wasn't sick. Clamping my teeth together so tightly it almost hurt, I nodded.

"Would you rather we speak alone?"

I could almost feel the objections rise in Mum's throat, the tensing of Dad's shoulders and the dropping of James and Lily's heads. None of them spoke, however. It was obvious that none wanted to leave, but that my preferences would be put first should I voice them.

I didn't really want my family to hear what I had to say. It was bad enough that the Healer was going to hear and write it all down in that painfully objective, professional way. But I owed it to them. I'd put them through enough these past days. I couldn't send them away, even if the thought of them bearing witness to my confession made me feel sick to the stomach. Slowly, dropping my eyes form Mendez's, I shook my head.

There was a brief pause. I didn't know what to make of Mendez's thoughtful silence; he didn't use his quill to hint at anything and I didn't want to raise my eyes towards him again to check. After a moment, he cleared his throat and spoke once more.

"Alright then. Albus, how long do you think it's been that you've struggled with anxiety?"

I cast a glance towards Mum and Dad again, questioning. Surely they'd have told the Healer about my… problem already. Especially since my friends and family had already spoken up on the matter.

As though hearing my unspoken scepticism, Mendez raised a placating, quill-laden hand. "I know you're aware that you've been spoken for on the subject. I merely wished to hear the story from your own perspective."

Picking furiously at my fingernails, I dropped my chin once more. "I don't know."

"You don't know when it started?" At the shake of my head, Mendez rephrased. "Then perhaps you could tell me when it started to get unmanageable?"

"S'not unmanageable," I mumbled. Even to my own ears my words sounded pathetic, a little pleading.

"Unfortunately, Albus, I can't classify the use of illegal and unmedicated substances as being a healthy mode of management." Mendez actually sounded a little regretful at that. Go figure. "Would you suppose that it became more difficult to deal with stress six years ago? That this was when you started using drugs?"

I hated this. I hated it so much. I wanted to stopper my ears, to close my eyes and curl up into a ball like an armadillo, anything to avoid the twenty questions session. I don't like revealing my secrets. It had taken years for me to get comfortable enough with Ozzy and Rhali to even consider it, and that was with the use of external assistance. With Scor, it was becoming a little easier, but it was still hard. Still uncomfortable, embarrassing, humiliating. Couldn't we all just accept someone else's words on the subject, take them as fact, and shunt the situation to the side entirely?

Except I knew that wouldn't happen. I knew it the way that I knew the ingredients of a Calming Draught, or the key features of a receptive flower from stigma to sepal. I'd learned from experience, by committing that experience to memory, and it clung to my mind unshakeably. The only way out was to simply plough on through.

So that's what I did. Gritting my teeth, I strove to settle myself into detachedness. Into a place set deliberately aside from the situation, and answer mechanically.

"Yes, I think so."

"Would you be able to tell me the frequency of your usage?"

"It changes. Depends on how stressed I am."

"At first?"

I shrugged. "Probably about once a month."

"And more recently?"

"At least once a day."

"Oh Al…" Mum whispered, though it sounded more like a moan. I didn't – couldn't – spare her a glance, but saw the motion of Dad's arm wrap around her shoulder. It hit me like a punch in the gut. I stared resolutely at my lap.

"And this was Harproot?"

"Yeah, Harproot. Sometimes Happy… um, the Miscanthus hybrid too, though less frequently."

"Ever together?"

"No. They don't mix well."

"You've tried it?"

"A long time ago."

"When you were experimenting?"

I bit my lip. Ouch. The very word 'experimenting' sounded dirty. I was sure Mendez didn't intend for it to be so, and it was likely just the filter on my own ears that made it such but it still hurt. I had to swallow down a rush of nausea; it settled once more uncomfortably in my gut. Thank God I hadn't managed much for lunch. "Yeah, I guess."

"Do you still engage in such experimentation with various substances?"

I shook my head. "No, not really. I just use what I'm familiar with."

Mendez paused in his questioning. I could see the thoughtful frown on his face, despite the fact my eyes were trained unwaveringly on my hands. "What you're familiar with… your own products?"

Oh crap. I'd hoped to avoid this situation. I really didn't want to talk about the fact that I'd been growing my own stuff, though I'd known it to be unavoidable. Of course they'd ask. I just hadn't expected it to be so early. Worse, where those questions started, other less neutral ones were sure to follow.

But I'd made a commitment. And though it pained me to do so, the image of my little plants seeming to droop pitifully in the back of my mind, I had to reply. Go with the flow, go with the flow, go with the flow… If I backed out now, there would be no picking up where I'd left off. I knew that, too.

"Yeah, I grow my own."

"So they are all plant-based substances?"

The Healer was sounding more like a law enforcer on a bust than a medic. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "Yeah, they're all plants."

"How long have you grown your own substances?"

"Since I was twelve." I flinched as another small moan bubbled from Mum. "I don't… really like using things other people have cooked up."

"A wise decision on your part." Mendez spoke softly and with what I felt was genuine kindness. I turned just my eyes upwards to peer at him and was rewarded with a small smile. "There is an appalling amount of impure substances circulating in the Wizarding world these days. The Muggle world too, of course, though such substances are less debilitating to those who possess an active magical core."

I blinked, surprised, and felt my eyebrows rise. Well, I'd never considered that. Mendez nodded at my response, apparently less discrete than I'd intended. "Yes, it's true. But that doesn't mean they're not dangerous in their own right. Only that, should anyone – and I am by no means promoting such activities," Mendez cast a rueful glance towards Dad, who gave a feeble half-smile in response. "But if anyone were to engage in recreational drug use, the source of the obtained substances should be very carefully chosen. Especially potions and chemical brews. There's no knowing what could be thrown into the mix."

I nodded slowly. I already knew that. It was one of the main reasons I only used my own. Which made the impulsive use of the MA so utterly stupid. What had I been thinking?

Though, of course, I hadn't been. That was the problem. I hadn't been able to think at all.

"Where do you keep the originals of your sources?" Mendez continued.

Oh, and now we were getting into dangerous territory. I sunk back into the hospital bed warily. "Why?"

"Al, be realistic," Dad spoke up for the first time. He sounded world-worn and weary, his voice more of a heavy sigh than a reproach. "You know we can't let you keep them."

'But…" My throat felt abruptly strangled. I lifted my head, horrified, towards my dad. "But you can't just –"

"Al, please," Mum cut in, her own words wavering. It silenced me like a Silencio. My lips clamped firmly shut. Mum's face was tightened into a complex mixture of hardness, determination and tender sympathy. "You know why we have to do this. You know why."

I could only shake my head. My lips felt dangerously close to trembling, and tears to falling along with them. Not my plants. Not my Harproot, my Happy Gum. I'd had both of them for so long, it would be like giving up a much-loved pet. Worse, because I needed them. I blinked rapidly to clear my eyes.

Mendez was glancing between me and my parents, his quill tapping with feather-lightness on his clipboard. When no one else spoke he continued once more. He was all professional Healer again now. "Albus, I'm sorry that this upsets you so, but for your own safety it would be best to remove them from your possession. It is not that you aren't trusted, only that for those suffering from an addiction –"

"I'm not an addict." My voice had begun to waver now.

"You may not perceive it as such, but the heaviness of your dependence and the frequency of your usage suggests –"

"I'm not an addict," I repeated, almost glaring at my hands in my lap once more. "I specifically grew my plants to evict the addictive substances from their composition. I'm not addicted."

Mendez was silent for a moment. The quill began its near-silent tapping once more. The uncomfortable fidgeting that rung through the room was very telling. I didn't bother glancing at anyone; I doubted any could have looked me in the eye right now. I knew how I sounded. I was sure every actual addict sounded the same.

But I wasn't an addict. I wasn't.

"Be that as it was," Mendez finally enunciated quietly. "The reality is that we cannot, with clear consciences, check you out from hospital without the assurance that you are distanced from such an opportunity to relapse. I'm not saying that you would," he hastened to assure me, as though I'd been about to interrupt him, even though I hadn't been, "but it is simply a precautionary measure. And outside of that, I doubt your school would be so lenient as to allow it."

Ah. Yes. School. I could hardly even imagine what was going on there. Did the other students know? All of the teachers would, surely. Weatherwell would be judgemental while pretending not to be, Tyril would probably be his saddened, kindly old self, and the Defence professor Killian would likely be loudly grumbling about how someone could possibly have managed to initiate such a permanent and illegal activity within Hogwarts walls. And Neville. Neville would be heartbroken, especially that I'd used plants.

That thought hurt terribly. More even than the assumption that "oh shit, the prophet probably knows, and now the whole world probably knows, and Merlin I'm never going to go to uni and my life is over". Yeah, that loud bellowing at the back of my mind had grown increasingly prominent over the past few hours.

Of course my plants would be taken off me. If I thought about it realistically, I'd known it since my memories returned to me. I'd hoped for otherwise, but I wasn't so deluded as to think it would actually happen. I'd never be the sort of person that would buy a lottery ticket with the actual hope that I'd win. That would be reaching far too high.

"W-what… what would you do with them?" I asked feebly, eyes still downcast. Silence met my words. That silence was as much of an answer as any awkward reply could be. I bit my lip once more, flinching as my fingers tugged at and tore viciously at a nail. The pain that followed in my fingertips was almost welcome. "Oh."

"Al, I'm sorry, but we have to." Dad forsook Mum's shoulder and sidled closer to my bed. He leant forwards and placed a hand on one of my knees in that awkward Dad way he had, the "I'm not sure what to do, but I'm trying". "And apart from what the school would likely demand, it wouldn't be fair to the rest of the students. Even if you kept them sensibly, to not use them, who's to say that someone else would have the same restraint?"

"Which highlights another topic we have need to discuss," Mendez interrupted. It wasn't a cruel interruption, but that was definitely what it was. He took the opportunity and jumped on it. I lifted my gaze up to his once more. He didn't offer a smile this time. "Albus, would you be able to tell me whom else shared in your activities?"

"No," I blurted out before I'd even had the forethought to consider my reply.

"Albus…" Mum sighed, and I knew from the use of my full name that she was gearing up for a reprimand.

I shook my head decisively. "No. No, I'm not – I'm not going to dob anyone in."

"It's not dobbing, Al," Dad attempted.

Mendez dropped his chin in a nod of agreement. "We would simply be ensuring the safety of your fellows –"

"No." I shook my head again, so hard and fast it actually hurt my neck. "I'm not saying anything. I'll take expulsion first." Bugger them all. I loved my family, but I wasn't going to sell my friends out. Not Ozzy, so calm and casual who honestly seemed to partake in our nights in the Niche from a purely recreational point of view. Not Rhali, who everyone always saw as such a hard-arse but had a fragile bone buried right at the centre, a fragility that benefitted from our nights as much as I did.

Not Scor. Definitely not Scor. God, I would never route out him. It would destroy him; not only his studying career, but his future in his dad's company. How would that look, to have a newbie and son of the CEO as a reputed junkie? And even beyond that, Scor was a role model. He took pride in the image he presented, of the 'play by the rules' prefect, the dedicated student, the ideal pupil and idol to be looked up to. How could he ever live such a label down? Somehow he'd managed to avoid getting tagged with such an admittedly correct assumption as a user alongside the rest of us; I intended to keep it that way. And not just for his sake. I don't know how I would handle it if Scor hated me for telling. That thought wrapped a cold hand around my heart.

"I don't think they'll expel you," Mum broke into my thoughts. I glanced towards her, lost for a moment, before recalling my carelessly spoken words. "Headmaster Tyril is currently in discussion with the Department of Education and his staff, but Neville seems to think –"

"Ginny," Dad cut in, almost warningly. Mum stopped, a flash of annoyance fading quickly to guilt. Then she deliberately sealed her lips.

Mendez was doing his glancing act again, shifting his gaze between us all at once more. "Perhaps this would be something better discussed with your teachers? I believe the school is taking responsibility for the incident?"

Mum and Dad nodded in synchrony. Mendez jotted another note on his clipboard. "Alright then, we'll leave that. Now, Albus, if you could tell me…"

He asked more questions. About my Harproot and about its effects. About the variation of those effects and of how it responded to other substances. About the MA I'd taken and what I knew of it, prodding at the supposedly forgotten identity of the person who'd given it to me. I answered as best I could, but that best was purely terrible. Speaking had become difficult once more. Any inclination I'd had towards honesty before had rapidly dwindled with the dual attack of my plants being taken from me and the digging for the names of my friends. I was being frustratingly close-lipped, I knew, but it was that or risk descending into a blubbering mess.

I felt like I'd made a spectacle enough of myself over the past days to avoid that.

Finally, Mendez left. He was a nice enough bloke, even with all of the intrusive questions that made me hate him just a little, but I wasn't sad to see him go. As soon as the door clicked shut upon his departure, it felt as though a weight had lifted from the room. Though the tension was still there, tightening shoulders and quirking lips in downturned thoughtfulness, it was definitely less pronounced than it had been. Like we did so often with issues that were just too much to handle right now, I could almost see each and every one of us setting the messiness of the past discussion to the side. Not abandoned or forgotten, but just left for later.

Lily was the first to make a move. Before even Mum could shake herself loose from the deliberate distancing we'd all adopted in front of the Healer, Lily was upon me. Her arms locked firmly around my neck as I was nearly pulled bodily from my bed into an embrace. I returned the hug as best I could. My little sister was the only one I hadn't had a brief moment to talk to before Mendez came in; she'd arrived moments after him. We weren't all that prone to hugging one another, my siblings and I, but it felt nice all the same. The sincerity of her feelings conveyed by the gesture was even nicer.

"I was so worried about you. We all were; everyone at school was freaking out."

"Everyone?" I mumbled into her shoulder. My words were muffled by her jumper.

Lily pulled away at that, though remained in her seat upon the bed. Her face adopted an expression of understanding and sympathy that immediately made me feel uncomfortable. "Not everyone, Al. Me, Rose, Hugo, Roxanne. Lorcan and Lysander. And Rhali, Ozzy and Scor. As for everyone else, I doubt anyone actually knows what really happened. We're all keeping it pretty quiet."

At the mention of Scor's name, I immediately opened my mouth to speak. More than the reassurance of the school's silence on the matter, it was his name that jumped out at me. I don't know what I was going to say, or why it was Scor in particular that triggered such a response. That hasty realisation urged me to close my mouth before speaking.

Lily heard my unspoken words anyway, however, and in an uncharacteristic display of understanding gave me a small smile. "He's… they're alright. Now they are. I messaged Rose and Hugo as soon as Weatherwell came and got me from class this morning. She'll have told them all." She paused, pursing her lips. "I think they'd all just be happy you're alright."

I nodded, attempting and failing a smiling response. Knowing my friends were upset for me hurt just as much as that same knowledge pertaining to my family. I hadn't really expected otherwise; they were my friends, and I wasn't quite so self-pitying and masochistic as to assume that they didn't care for me. But having reality thrown out in the open like that? The punches I'd been receiving in the gut today were continuing to come thick and fast.

I wanted to talk to my friends. Probably more than even the rest of my family still at school; I loved my cousins, but other than the occasional on-again off-again closeness with Rose we weren't all quite as companionable as I think Nana would like to believe we were. I wanted to reassure them, to apologise to Rhali before her scowling reprimands, to receive Ozzy's one-armed hug that spoke more than words. To… I didn't even know what Scor would do, how he would respond, but I wanted that too. Even if he was angry with me, I just wanted to be around them.

I felt another shotgun-speed flash of guilt at that memory of my brief hatred towards everyone that I'd experienced before… before the incident. The events leading up to it were startlingly clear in my memory. Well, after the unexpected and temporary loss of that memory, that was. And I felt terrible for it. Yeah, sure, I didn't really enjoy spending time with people in general, but those token few? I could think of few things better than a night in the Niche with my friends, or an afternoon spent with Neville in the greenhouse.

Or an evening with Scor in the Room of Requirement, amorous or otherwise.

Lily was talking again. Running her mouth, actually, which was fairly typical for her. I was surprised she'd managed to keep silent throughout Mendez's interview, actually. My sister wasn't known for being able to hold her tongue.

James was, however, uncharacteristically quiet. He stood at my bedside and just peered at me sidelong. It was oddly reassuring. Mum and Dad, too. We'd not spoken much since I'd awoken, but they didn't seem capable of it all that much. There was far too much to actually be said, but it was evident that none of us knew where to start. Mum just propped herself on the side of my bed as we all bore witness to Lily's explanation of the ensuing events at Hogwarts, of how Rose had been nagging her incessantly and the Scarmanders demonstrated a remarkably profound concern for ones so vague. Dad did his best to chime in, but I could tell his heart wasn't really in it.

Mine wasn't either. I just sunk into Mum's side when she wrapped an arm around me, dropping my head upon her shoulder. She set up a slow steady pat like one would to a small and disconsolate child. It was actually more comforting than I would care to admit.

"… and you know Killian? Yeah, that bastard, he actually had the balls to come up and ask me how you were."

"Did you maybe think that he was just being sincere in his concern?" Dad suggested. He'd pulled a seat up to my bedside and was leaning with elbows on knees in a weary slump. His face was notably more relaxed then it had been, however.

Lily, her fire reborn and chasing away any lingering melancholy, shook her head defiantly. "You know Killian's just a grumpy old man. There is no way his question comes from a place of compassion."

"I've always found him to be quite agreeable when I've spoken to him," Dad said. I was pleased, in a detached sort of way, to see a small smile touching the corners of his lips.

"Yeah," Lily replied with a huff. "But that's because you always come in the afternoon and Killian's always a few cups less rigid by six at night."

"Six? That's early…"

"I know, right? But me and Layla, we saw last year when we had to come late to pick up our essays for the mechanics of counter curses, and…"

I felt myself easing to the music of Lily's words, to the quiet input of my dad. Even James started to contribute after a while, though Mum stayed silent. We were all deliberately ignoring the elephant in the room, to which I was truly grateful.

We couldn't avoid it forever, though. Not with the issue with the school, with my own situation, with my plants and what would happen in future, with studies and dealing with this 'disorder' and avoiding a repeat incident. It was going to have to be discussed eventually.

"Hey, Mum?"

My murmur was so quiet I doubt anyone but Mum could have heard me. If they did, neither Dad nor my siblings batted an eyelid, continuing with their distracted conversation.

Mum shifted beneath me. I think she turned her head towards me, but I didn't lift my own from her shoulder to check. "Hmm?"

"I'm just…" My voice cracked and I was forced to stop. It was that or risk dissolving into tears.

Mum didn't need me to finish, though. That was one of the best things about mums; they always just seem to know. "It's alright, sweetie. I know. It's alright." And she set up a gentle rock to accompany her pats.

I bit my lip to hold back my tears. It was a near thing, a physical struggle to hold back the emotion rising in my chest. It swelled almost painfully, plugging my throat. Maybe that was a good thing, though. I don't think I could have found adequate words to say what I wanted to anyway.

Visiting hours were over and my family had been urged from the premises, much to their obvious dissatisfaction and largely unconcealed distress. Mum had started crying when she finally released me, promising to be back as soon as possible the next morning, and Dad hadn't been far behind. It broke my heart into splinters once more.

I was left very alone. The nurse's assurances as to their proximity "in case I needed something", did nothing to alleviate that feeling. I'd never been partial to company all that much, but found myself wanting it in the small hospital room that felt far too large. I was left to stare blankly at the green wall opposite me, turned white in the darkness of night. That or read one of the books Lily had brought. I'd never felt less like reading in my entire life.

Instead, my fingers trembled, hovering over the letters on my phone. The screen shone brightly in the darkness of the hospital ward. They – the doctors, my parents, James – didn't know how much longer I was going to spend in St. Mungo's. I hoped it wasn't long, and not only because I was growing increasingly uncomfortable around the doctors and their prodding questions.

My friends weren't allowed to visit me at hospital, would have to wait until I was transferred home. Apparently the school thought it best that they not be exposed to such an environment, and besides, I'd almost certainly be out by the weekend anyway. I shuddered at the thought, both at the memory of being told and at what it meant. "Such an environment". I felt contaminated.

That didn't mean I couldn't still contact them, though. Ozzy didn't have a phone – archaic gnome that he was, the nitwit – but Rhali did, and the one I'd given Scor for Christmas… I wasn't not sure if they'd get a message if I sent one. Hogwarts was largely a dead zone, and had only about half a dozen hotspots scattered randomly about the grounds. I couldn't imagine why either of them would be anywhere near one at nearly eight o'clock at night.

Still, I felt like I had to message them, to send them even a word or two. I'd messaged Rose earlier in the afternoon – mostly because she'd left me a couple dozen herself that were clogging up my inbox – and she'd buzzed me back almost immediately. She'd asked me to message Scor, of all things. As if I wasn't going to.

The real question was how? What could I possibly say after acting the way I had?

Gulping a convulsive swallow, I slowly, hesitantly, tapped at the letters on the screen. My trembling fingers made the entire process take about twice as long as it should have. I felt scared, though of what I didn't know. Scor's anger? His disapproval? His disdain? I wasn't sure if that would be better or worse than the worry that gripped me in not knowing.

Hey Scor. I'm sorry I didn't message you sooner. To be honest, I didn't know what to say. Still don't, really, so I'm just going to say the first thing that comes to mind.

Sorry. I'm really, really sorry.

I should have written more. Should have said more. I didn't know what I was apologising for, not really, not when I didn't even know what his response had been, but the guilt that flooded through me when I thought of my boyfriend demanded remorse. My thumb hovered for a moment more over the 'Send' button before I pressed it.

I dropped the phone into the linen cradle in my lap and slumped back, exhausted. I should message Rhali – I would message her – but just not right now. Soon. I needed… a break? After even such a short message, the nervousness that arose within me was draining. Even more tiring after the mentally exhausting assault of the day. I doubted Scor would reply, not tonight and probably not for a while. I couldn't expect him too, not with the shitty reception around –

Buzzzz.

I blinked down at the phone. Scor. It was a message back. An immediate reply. As though he'd been waiting to give it.

My fingers were a fumbling mess as I picked my phone up once more, breath hitching as I flicked the message open. I didn't know what to expect, didn't know if I wanted to look…

I don't need to hear you apologise. I don't want to. You don't have to apologise for something like this, Al. Ever. If anything, I should be the one apologising for not being there for you when you really needed me.
I'm sorry.
Just please, promise me one thing. Please, please, never do it again. I don't think I'd survive it if you did.

I love you.

Scor.

I couldn't read the message a second time. I wanted to, but the tears blurring my eyes made it impossible. My watery gaze was fastened upon the three words at the bottom of the message, the three words that, even without hearing them aloud, I read in Scor's voice.

I love you…

It was probably said in the heat of the moment. Probably more sentiment than anything else, triggered by the situation. Yet that simple phrase, almost off-handed and following right behind that which resounded with those from my family, flooded me with a riot of emotions. There were too many for me to know what to do with them.

Dropping my forehead onto the phone with a light thunk, I closed my eyes. For the first time that day, I just let it all sink in. All of it, from the doctor's words to the loss of my plants, from my family's mixed mournfulness and relief to Scor's simple yet stark words.

I was glad in that moment that visiting hours were over. There was no one there to see me cry.